


Bedroom Hymns

by JCF



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual, Consensual Sex, Don’t copy to another site, First Time, Gay Sex, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-The Final Problem, Referenced Drug Addiction, Referenced Drug Use, Sex, Sherlock's First Time, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCF/pseuds/JCF
Summary: John has been searching for a way to fix Sherlock. One night, Sherlock comes to him with a cup of tea and a confession. He doesn't want John to save him; he wants John to love him.





	Bedroom Hymns

**Author's Note:**

>   
> Cover made by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
> 
>  
> 
> Fic inspired by a beautiful piece of fanart by missevalyn on Tumblr. You can find it at the link below.  
> http://artbyval.ca/post/49731492363/ive-been-wanting-to-make-something-for-red-pants

John turned away from the desk lamp and pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache wasn’t dissipating. Instead, it was flaring, and he doubted any amount of painkillers would help at this rate. He leaned his elbows on his desk, setting his head in his hands.

He’d been at this for weeks. He’d spoken to anyone willing to give him answers and tried to use the information he’d received. He’d read every piece of information he could get his hands on and tried to utilize the knowledge and tips. He’d filled one journal with notes and was onto a second.

Still nothing. He hadn’t gained any more ground than when he started.

He didn’t know what else to do.

He didn’t know how to fix Sherlock. More than that, he didn’t know how to save him.

What kind of a doctor couldn’t save someone?

The sound of a teacup hitting the desk came from beside him. He lifted his head and saw the steaming cup of tea. Long fingers were wrapped around the handle.

John followed the fingers to the adjoined hand, to the forearm. He stopped at the injection sites; the last one over a week old.

John closed his eyes. _How could you do this to yourself?_

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice was small, tentative; the most vulnerable John had ever heard it. The only other time it had been anywhere near this was after Guy Fawkes Day. Sherlock had told him everything that had happened in the two years he’d been tracking Moriarty’s web, and issued the most sincere apology John had ever received from anyone.

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was in his grey pajama pants and blue silk dressing gown. He’d neglected to put a t-shirt on.

Even in the dim lamplight, John could tell Sherlock’s weight hadn’t returned to normal. It was better than it had been, but only because, everyday John had forced him to eat something – a salad, a piece of toast, ice cream – _anything!_ Some days, Sherlock complied without a fuss. Other days, it was like arguing with a two year old. No, it was worse than arguing with a two year old. A two year old, eventually, did as they were asked after a time out. Put Sherlock in a timeout and he stayed there. Today had been one of those latter days.

Sherlock’s eyes moved to the open journal on the table and he smiled. “So that’s where the new box of patches came from.”

Embarrassed, John covered the journal with his hands. “Well, you didn’t get them, so the only other logical explanation is that I did.” He started to close the book.

Sherlock reached out and stopped the cover from falling over the pages. “These notes…”

John looked down at the open journal.

 

_TREATING COCAINE ADDICTION_

  * _No MHRA approved pharmacological approach_
  * _behavioural intervention?_



_! PICK UP MORE NICOTINE PTCHS_

 

John’s eyes trailed up Sherlock’s arm again, not stopping until they’d reached his face. Concern and sadness was all John could see in it.

“I want… I’m trying to… I’m trying to fix you,” John stammered. “I…” The back of eyes began to heat up and he balled his hand into a fist pressing against his mouth in an effort to keep himself together.

Sherlock was silent, patiently waiting for him to continue.

“I want to fix you—”

Sherlock gripped John’s wrist gently. His fingers were warm from holding the tea, and soft. There was a faint tremor in them, but John couldn’t tell if it was because his strength wasn’t yet at a hundred percent or if it was from nerves. “John. Stop.”

The backs of John’s eyes were stinging now. “No. I can, and I _will_. I’m a doctor; that’s what I do. I _save_ people.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

“I have to, Sherlock.”

Sherlock crouched down in front of John, placing his free hand on John’s knee to steady himself. He moved his other hand to hold onto John’s. John didn’t move his hand away.

“John, _stop_.” He looked John directly in the eyes. “I don’t need you to save me. I don’t _want_ you to save me.”

_What was this madness? Why not? What the bloody hell?!_

“Sherlock, please. Let me—”

“No, John.” Sherlock’s voice was taut, but soft. “I don’t want you to save me… I don’t want that.”

John swallowed, struggling to find his voice. “Th-then what do you want?”

“I… I want you to love me,” Sherlock answered. “I want you to love me like I do you.”

John froze. He swallowed. What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of trick? A manipulation to get him to do something?

He searched Sherlock’s eyes. The angle of the lamplight made Sherlock’s eyes appear brighter and accented the flecks of gold and green. They were steady, and John couldn’t find one hint of a lie.

“You what?” John stammered. This couldn’t be right… He chuckled dismissively. “You haven’t said a word in three days, and now you’re telling me that… that you…”

“Yes, well, you know how I am with feelings.” Sherlock offered him a sheepish smile.

John nodded. “Yes, I know.” Good heavens was he ever aware. “But, Sherlock—”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and knee tightly. Maybe a little bit too tight. “No, John, please, let me get this out.” His voice was soft and wavered, nervous. “I need you to listen to what I have to say. Afterward, whatever you choose, I will accept. Just, let me get this out.”

John had never seen his friend this vulnerable. Sherlock was always confident and cocky, and often full of himself. But, now, here he was, literally on his knees begging John to listen to him. Suddenly, to John, he was like a scared and lonely child desperate to be loved by someone.

John found himself holding Sherlock’s hand back. “Okay. Alright.”

Relief spread over Sherlock’s face. He closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them again, John knew he was in for a rapid fire speech of some sort. But, he’d promised to listen, and listen he was going to.

“I love you, John. I have since that first case we worked together. I tried to deny it… I tried not to fall in love with you, because love changes everything, it clouds the mind and makes sound decisions infuriatingly difficult, but the more I tried, the worse it got.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for God knows how long, but you had all those… those… romances, and I didn’t think you felt the same way – why would you? _How_ could you? How could you love a sociopath who picks fights with dangerous criminals and takes on equally dangerous cases as an alternative to getting high? Though, I seem to have buggered that one up.

“And then everything happened with Moriarty and I faked my own death and left you alone for two years – I still can’t believe you forgave me for that. _I_ still can’t forgive me for that…

“And then I came back and you had moved on. You were with Mary, and you were happy. So, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to ruin your happiness, and I don’t regret doing that because you have Rosie, who is beautiful and, in every way, her father’s daughter.

“When Mary died, I thought I had no hope in hell of ever being able to confess this to you. She put a value on my life that I still don’t understand and, quite frankly, don’t think I deserve. No, I _know_ I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve _you_. And yet, you’re here, and have spent weeks trying to save me, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to repay that, but I _love you_ , John Watson.” Sherlock paused, exhaling what little breath he had left, and took in another. “There. That’s all of it.”

John stared at him. Was all of this real or was this just a figment of his tired, worn out imagination? Had Sherlock just confessed his love for him… a love that went beyond merely years of being flat mates and best friends?

It couldn’t be true. Sherlock Holmes in love with John Watson, an ex-Captain with moderate to severe PTSD, and a temper to boot?

Yet, they were the same reasons John had kept how he felt a secret. John had always been attracted to both men and women, but women had always seemed the safer road. It was easier for society to accept. But then he’d met Sherlock Holmes and it all changed. Yes, he’d married Mary, but for all intents and purposes, Sherlock had committed suicide off the roof of St. Bart’s! He had no reason to suspect Sherlock would return, and he had fallen in love with Mary. But then…

Sadness and rejection clouded Sherlock’s face, and he nodded. “I understand. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” Then he started to stand.

John reached for his hand. “Sherlock, no.” He looked him square in the eyes. He took a breath, expecting his words to jumble. Instead, they came clear and easy. “ _I’m_ sorry. You’re not the only one who tried to hide it.”

The sadness in Sherlock’s face was replaced by bemusement. “You mean, you…?”

“Yes,” John answered. “I’ve been attracted to you since day one. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself, and besides, the great Sherlock Holmes would want nothing to do with little old John Watson.”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock whispered. “The great Sherlock Holmes wants _everything_ to do with little old John Watson.” He leaned forward and took John’s lips with his.

John didn’t know what he was expecting. Sherlock’s lips were as soft as the kiss was. The kiss that ended entirely too soon.

Sherlock pulled back, a coy smile at his mouth, his eyes roaming John’s face.

John’s smile mirrored Sherlock’s. “Would you mind doing that again?” he murmured. “I think I missed it the first time.”

Sherlock’s coy smile became one of joy, and he closed his lips around John’s again.

John took hold of the hand on his knee. He tugged on it gently, inviting Sherlock to stand up.

Sherlock withdrew quickly, apology in his eyes. “I’m sorry, did I?—”

John took both of Sherlock’s hands into his. “No. You’re not doing anything wrong.” He pushed the chair away from the table and gently guided Sherlock back toward him.

Sherlock hesitated. A blush rose on his cheeks. “John, I’ve never done anything like this before…”

John squeezed his hands. “It’s okay. And we don’t have to.”

A faint smile spread onto Sherlock’s face, and the blush in his cheeks deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, and for a moment, nothing came out. John could see the questioning in Sherlock’s eyes, and he was going to give him as much time as he needed to ask it.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to… to lie with another person,” Sherlock stammered. “Would it be alright if I… lie with you?”

“In what way, exactly?” John asked. He had a feeling he knew was meant by the question, but he wanted to hear Sherlock say it. He wanted to be sure Sherlock wanted it. He wanted Sherlock to be sure he wanted it.

Sherlock glanced down at John’s crotch, a curiosity and want in his eyes unlike anything John had ever seen. He swallowed and raised his eyes back to John’s face. “Like lovers.”

John nodded. “Okay. But we only go as far as you feel comfortable going. If, at any time, you feel you need to stop, tell me and we’ll stop. No questions asked.” He laced his fingers with Sherlock’s. “You are calling the shots.”

Any nerves visible in Sherlock’s face melted and he stepped forward and straddled John’s legs. He leaned down and kissed John again.

John ran his hands up Sherlock’s arms and gently brought him down to sit. When he did, John entangled his fingers in Sherlock’s dark locks. He parted his lips, inviting Sherlock to explore.

A tentative tongue touched John’s bottom lip, sending a flurry of sensations through him. John moaned softly.

Sherlock pulled back a bit. “Is that alright?”

“Oh God yes,” John breathed. “It’s more than alright.”

Sherlock smiled and got to kissing him again, a bit more fervently this time. John ran his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip, requesting entry. Sherlock complied, and in no time, their tongues were playing with each other.

John pulled his hands out of Sherlock’s hair and set them on his chest. Sherlock’s skin was soft, and a little cool from the lack of t-shirt. The muscle beneath was still strong, stronger than John thought it would have been. Had Sherlock been working out? Or had he just always been like this? Whatever it was, John liked the feel of it beneath his fingers. He wanted to feel more.

Slowly, he slid his fingers beneath the silk dressing gown on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“May I?” he asked between kisses.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s answer came quickly.

John slid the rest of his hands beneath the smooth fabric, and nudged it off of Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock lowered his arms, allowing the garment to fall silently to the floor.

John explored Sherlock’s chest with his hands. He traced his collarbones down to his pectorals, to his abdomen. Sherlock had, indeed, been working out. His ribs weren’t as prominent as they had been a few weeks ago.

His thumb halted at the scar left by the bullet from Mary’s gun. The wound had healed neatly with very little puckering, unlike his own battle scar. The surgeons had done a very good job, and Sherlock had, for the most part, followed doctors’ orders. Namely, _this doctor’s_ orders.

John traced the lines of Sherlock’s abdomen muscles, feeling them twitch and contract as he did, then rested his hands on Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock pulled back and looked into John’s eyes. John suddenly felt very naked and open under Sherlock’s gaze, more than he’d ever been previously, and Sherlock’s eyes were piercing enough on an average day. But, he didn’t feel vulnerable. Quite the opposite. He felt _loved_. Sherlock _wanted to **love** him_.

Sherlock set one hand on the side of John’s face, caressing his cheek with his thumb. His fingers curled brushing against John’s neck.

John closed his eyes and leaned into Sherlock’s touch. The only other time Sherlock was ever this tender with him was the day he finally allowed himself to grieve for Mary. The same man who had taken one hell of a beating from him hours before was comforting him in a time of sadness. Sometimes, he barely understood the man, but John was grateful to have him in his life. And now, John just wanted _him_.

Sherlock leaned down to John’s ear. “I want to make love with you, John.”

Sherlock’s breath was warm and moist, and his voice was low. Beneath him, John thought he could feel Sherlock hardening.

The feel of Sherlock’s voice and hardening cock sent John into an immediate state of arousal and it was all he could do not to take Sherlock right then and there. _Slow and easy, John…_

John pulled back slightly so he could see Sherlock’s face. “Are you sure? Are you _absolutely_ sure?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

John searched Sherlock’s eyes. There was nothing but genuine want in them. He nodded. “Okay.”

Sherlock stood, and took John’s hands, guiding him to his feet. John let Sherlock lead him from the room and downstairs to his bedroom. The flat was almost in darkness. The only light was from Sherlock’s beside lamp.

John closed the door and then took Sherlock into his arms, pressing himself against him. Yes, Sherlock was indeed hardening.

Sherlock tugged at the hem of John’s shirt. “Too many clothes,” he breathed.

John backed away slightly, giving Sherlock just enough room to unbutton his shirt and slide it off of his shoulders. John pulled his arms from the sleeves, cursing softly when the cuffs caught on his wrists.

Sherlock laughed. “Need help?”

John sighed. “No… I just need to…”

Sherlock took each of John’s hands, playfully inspecting them. “You know, John, it helps if you unbutton your cuffs first.” And he set to doing just that.

John flushed and dropped his head. How stupid could he be? “Yes well, apparently, I’m an idiot.” He rested his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and laughed as Sherlock freed his hands from his shirt. His breathed in the scent of Sherlock’s skin and sighed. “An idiot in love with Sherlock Holmes.” Then he kissed that long neck.

Sherlock leaned his head to the side, giving John more room – room that John took advantage of. He ran his lips along Sherlock’s jaw, down his neck and back again, pausing to suckle on the warm skin.

Sherlock moaned John’s name, low and hoarse. John responded in kind, and gently guided Sherlock to the bed.

Sherlock sat down, looked up at John and ran his hands over John’s chest.

John watched him explore. The curiosity and love on his face was electrifying, and John found himself falling harder in love with him.

Sherlock’s eyes paused on the wound that had invalided John out of Afghanistan. John looked down at it as well. He realized Sherlock had never seen it before. He’d never let him. All of his previous lovers had and it was a wound he’d learned to carry with pride, despite the painful reminder it served.

He watched Sherlock’s hands examine it gently. Then Sherlock leaned in and kissed it.

Sherlock’s lips were tender and John’s eyes stung. He ran a hand over Sherlock’s hair as carefully as Sherlock kissed his scar. Sherlock’s hands roamed John’s chest. A finger brushed a nipple and John’s breath hitched in his throat.

Sherlock’s hands travelled down to John’s waist and tugged at the button of John’s jeans. “I want to see you, John. All of you.”

“And I, you, Sherlock.”

“You first?” Sherlock asked. He looked up with an almost pleading look in his eyes.

John nodded. How could he say no to that face? “Okay.”

Sherlock’s lithe fingers worked through the button and zipper of John’s jeans, and gently tugged them down until they were in a heap at John’s feet. He cocked an eyebrow at John’s choice of underpants. They were brilliantly red with white seams and trim.

“Hmm… I think I like these,” he whispered.

John laughed. “They are quite lovely, aren’t they?”

“Especially on you.” Sherlock leaned in and his lips roamed the skin around John’s navel. Then he pulled back and eyed John’s crotch with great curiosity. His hand hovered over the material for a moment and he looked up. “May I?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock tentatively took hold of John’s cock through his pants, holding it in his hand for a moment.

John’s toes curled as he watched and felt Sherlock’s hand. Slowly, Sherlock moved the heel of his hand along John’s shaft, cautious and unsure.

John inhaled sharply, and held on to Sherlock’s shoulder to steady himself. “Are you sure this is your first time?”

Sherlock murmured something that resembled a “yes,” and moved his hand up and down. On one go around, he cupped John’s balls in his fingers.

“You haven’t received any tips from Irene Adler have you?”

Sherlock stopped, and John was almost disappointed. “No. I was never in love with her, John. I won’t deny that I think she’s brilliant, but I never loved her.” He wrapped his fingers around John’s cock. “I’ve only ever loved _you_.”

Sherlock pumped his hand up and down again, applying more pressure than before.

John moaned. Damn that felt amazing.

Sherlock’s hand moved faster, his eyes moving between John’s cock and expression. Sherlock smiled the way he did when he discovered something incredibly fascinating, something he thoroughly liked. He leaned in and kissed John’s abdomen.

 _Holy shit…_ John inhaled and his toes curled again. The combination of Sherlock’s fascination, his kisses, the way he pumped John’s cock had John leaking heavily. And the pleasure was building.

John’s hips bucked involuntarily. “Jesus…” He reached down to hold Sherlock’s wrist. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock pulled away quickly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

John took Sherlock’s hand. “No, no. It’s perfect. But if you continue like this, it’s going to be a very short night.”

Sherlock blushed. “Oh.”

John brought Sherlock’s hand to the waistband of his pants, and let him pull them down to join his jeans. John stepped out of the clothes heap and knocked them away with his foot. His belt buckle scraped across the floor and John prayed Mrs. Hudson was a sound sleeper. At 1:00AM, John sure hoped she was.

Sherlock seemed to ignore the noise, and leaned back trailing his eyes up and down John’s naked body. John suddenly felt self-conscious. He’d never been embarrassed by his cock; it was average if a bit thick, but now it was on show for Sherlock Holmes.

John had never allowed himself to be this open with Sherlock. It had taken days of guessing games and stealing a copy of John’s birth certificate for Sherlock to find out what the H in John’s name stood for. And, come to think of it, Sherlock had never given him grief for it. He’d taken it for what is was: John’s name.

Now, John was standing _completely_ naked in front of Sherlock with a hard, leaking penis. Yet, John felt safe, under the tender gaze of the man who could tell you what you had for breakfast just by looking at you.

But now, he _really_ wanted to see Sherlock. All of Sherlock.

John took Sherlock’s hands and invited him to stand. When he did, he took his lips with his, his tongue toying with Sherlock’s for a moment. He turned the two of them around, and took Sherlock’s previous position. “My turn.”

Sherlock took in a long, wavering breath, and John paused.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock said. “I want this. I want you to see me.”

Sherlock _wanted_ this. John reached out and set his hands on Sherlock’s hips. He trailed kisses along his stomach, lingering a moment at Sherlock’s own gunshot wound, as though kissing it could somehow make everything all better. Then, he took hold of Sherlock’s pyjama pants, and tugged them down. Once free of his hips, they slid to the floor, gathering at Sherlock’s ankles. And there he stood in this altogether.

John looked over Sherlock’s naked form several times, drinking all of him in. Every bit of him was slender and beautiful, even his cock. And John wanted him. All of him.

John pushed himself over to the other side of the bed and then patted the mattress next to him. “Come here.”

Sherlock complied and crawled in beside him. John trailed a finger along Sherlock’s face; his brow, his cheekbones, his jaw line, then took his chin between his thumb and forefinger, and brought him in for a long kiss. He trailed that kiss to Sherlock’s neck, suckling gently, licking the underside of his jaw. Sherlock’s skin was warm and salty from small beads of sweat.

Sherlock groaned and the sensation sent John reeling. John took Sherlock’s hand, and placed it near his hips and then took Sherlock completely into his arms. He kissed Sherlock over and over, felt his Adam’s apple bob with each swallow, the vibrations of his moans of pleasure.

Sherlock pressed himself against John, and that’s when John felt it. Sherlock was hard, his cock twitching and leaking against the both of them. John’s own twitched. He pulled back, and ran a hand down Sherlock’s torso, stopping at his navel. He raised a curious eyebrow, and Sherlock gave a jerky nod. “Ye-yes pl-please…”

John took Sherlock’s cock into his hand. And it felt wonderful. He began to slowly stroke, using Sherlock’s leakage for lubrication. Sherlock’s muscles twitched and he was breathing hard. His fingers moved over John’s skin, skittering and fluttering, and holding on. Then they moved down until they brushed John’s own leaking tip.

“Can… I?” Sherlock breathed.

“Oh, God yes.” John adjusted himself slightly, allowing Sherlock access to his hard cock.

Sherlock’s strokes were tentative and a little awkward at first, but with some guidance, he found an easy rhythm. John was getting closer with their mutual stroking, hearing Sherlock’s quiet moans, feeling his fingers flutter and tighten.

John watched Sherlock’s face as Sherlock’s cock twitched and leaked, and he played with John’s cock. When Sherlock’s stopped stroking and groaned low in his throat several times, John stopped too, and read Sherlock’s lips. John’s name was in his throat, but he was unable to complete it.

Sherlock whimpered quietly, and gripped the hand John had around Sherlock’s cock.

John didn’t need any more coaxing and continued stroking. He leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s face, his chin, his mouth, his cheeks. Sherlock was close, so close he was barely able to focus. John slowed his strokes, but suddenly Sherlock jerked, and his hips bucked.

“Joh– John… I th–think I’m–”

Every muscle in Sherlock’s body tensed, and then he shuddered and came over John’s hand and inner thigh.

“There we go, that’s it, perfect.” John continued to stroke through Sherlock’s orgasm until Sherlock relaxed and fell against him.

Sherlock took a moment to breathe and then continued stroking John. Sherlock leaned down and put his lips against John’s ear. “I want to do that to you.” Sherlock’s low voice and warm breath against his ear was enough to close John in on the edge.

John looked up at Sherlock, at the genuine want and love in his eyes, and that was it. He came, long and hard against Sherlock’s hand and body, eventually collapsing into him.

It was a moment before he recovered, but when he did, he found himself looking at Sherlock’s mesmerised face. Sherlock reached out and trailed the lines of John’s face, just as John had done to him earlier. Sherlock’s fingers were a bit sticky, but John didn’t mind.

“We should have done this sooner,” Sherlock whispered.

John laughed and tears welled in his eyes. “Yes, we should have.”

Sherlock looked down at him with care and concern. “John? Did I do something wrong?”

John blinked the tears back. “No. These aren’t tears of sadness; they’re tears of happiness. _You_ make me happy, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled, and John thought he saw Sherlock’s own eyes get wet. “And you make me happy, John Watson.” Sherlock leaned down and kissed John.

They lay back on the bed. Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder and draped his arm over John’s bare chest.

“John?”

“Mm?”

“What are we?” Sherlock asked. “What does this make us?”

John smiled, and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“Lovers,” he answered.

John heard Sherlock smile, felt a rush of warm air brush over his skin. “Lovers,” Sherlock repeated.

“Oh, and John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Could you wear those red pants more often? I like them.”

John laughed, and hugged Sherlock as best he could. “Any time you like.”

“Good,” Sherlock murmured. He snuggled in, and closed his eyes.

John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and drifted into an immediate, deep sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs and their lyrics never cease to inspire me when titling the things I write. The influential song for this piece is, "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence + The Machine.
> 
> Lyrics of inspiration:  
> This is as good a place to fall as any;  
> We'll build our alter here.  
> Make me your Maria,  
> I'm already on my knees.  
> You had Jesus on your breath,  
> And I caught him in mine.  
> Sweating our confessions,  
> The undone and the divine.


End file.
